Cowboys and Angels
by IHeartSPN
Summary: He finds himself in a bar, baiting the evil. She finds herself on the other side of a knife, scared and confused. In a turn of events, fate intervenes and they find themselves together … wanting. Varying POV's. Title taken from the song Cowboys and Angels by Dustin Lynch.
1. A Reason to Drink

AN: Unfortunately, I do not own Supernatural, or it's handsome characters. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy playing with them ^.^

Consider this story an experiment, of sorts. I've been dabbling with a different writing style recently and I thought I might make something more of it. So please, have a read and feel free to leave a review!

Also, this takes place some time during season four. For the sake of this story, some things will be tweaked, but it's generally consistent for the most part.

* * *

It's warm, much warmer than usual. Sunlight rains in through the parted drapes and spews shadow puppets across the dull veneer.

For once, the bar is not teeming with the pungent stench of sweat and stale beer. The pool tables are not stained by haphazard blotches of alcohol, ash does not litter the floors like sedimentation and the habitual puddle of vomit that lay festering in the corner is absent.

Outside, the streets are almost riotous, pulsing with verve and a flutter of agitation. Footsteps bustle past, swift and purposeful, quelled only by the near-deafening stream of childish screams and laughter.

Inside, the atmosphere is dull, almost leaden. Streamers the colour of red and blue and white are strewn from beam to beam across the bar and go unseen.

Few patrons speak quietly in the corner. Their hushed tones are muted by the speakers, which emit yet another drastically over-played song that hails directly from the eighties and Tenne smiles as she finds herself humming along with the lyrics.

She is dressed in torn denim shorts and a red tank top. It's scant really, and still, she finds that the warmth is suffocating. A blue flannelette is tied around her waist, however the heat prevents her from draping it over her shoulders, leaving them bare.

Tenne pops the top off of a bottle of cider and takes a long, liberated swig. She wants to go back to Hollow Rock and get drunk with her brothers; shoot hoops with her cousins and make jokes with her uncles while her mother feeds them lemonade and her grandmother tattles on about her position at the hospital.

Instead, she pinches the cheap, red material lining the brim of her cap and sighs. It's the 4th of July; Independence Day. She should be celebrating with the others, but an unfortunate turn of events – and several hungover staff members – forces her to be here. Beneath the fabric, her pale fringe lies flat against her forehead, damp with sweat. It's uncomfortable, but not quite as uncomfortable as the emptiness she feels around her. It's unpleasant, choking. She hasn't poured a drink in several hours and her palms begin to itch, burning with the need to do something.

"Bottle of Jack, please."

Tenne startles, withdrawn from her reverie. The voice is gruff and low, drawing her attention away from her fingernails – which are a tactless shade of red – and up into the eyes of her customer. They're sharp and green and sizzle like hellfire.

Tenne clears her throat. "Rough day?" She asks, bending forward in order to procure said bottle from beneath the counter.

The stranger smirks, admiring her gesture then he straightens his shoulders and places his palms flat against the bar.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea."

Tenne half-fills a seven with the rich, amber-coloured liquid and slides it towards him. He swiftly downs the glass and slides it back, gesturing for another.

"You got a name there, cowboy?" Tenne asks, repeating the action.

The man pushes the glass forward and clears his throat. "S'Dean." He mumbles.

Tenne smiles, and he smiles back.

"Dean." She repeats.

There's a gentle cough at the other end of the bar, and Tenne turns her head, meeting an old man's sullen gaze.

Tenne frowns. She takes note of his shaking hands, and the way his eyes roll restively from behind his eyelids, flickering from right to left, skittish. She didn't notice him enter, but he beckons her over with a wobbly paw and Tenne complies, leaving the strange man with the emerald green eyes to his bottle, and evidently, his sorrows.

"Hands'r … shakin'." The man mumbles as Tenne reaches him. His voice is thick, and Tenne assumes that this is the third bar he has entered today.

Tenne smiles, it's small and compassionate. His skin is pocked, and his eyes are dull and sickly, twinged yellow.

"I can fix that." Tenne breathes. She stills his hands with her own, quelling the tremors. His hands are larger than hers, but they're soft and frail. She can feel the bones in his fingers. His skin is threadbare and loose, and impossibly cold to the touch.

Tenne almost withdraws her hands, but then the man begins to speak. It's hushed and hurried and Tenne can feel his anxiety as sure as she could feel the oppressive heat. Tenne's voice is soft, but her words fall upon deaf ears. Her attempts to soothe his agitation only appear to heighten it.

He's rambling now, rocking back and forth upon the stool. His shoulders are hunched, and his body is drawn in upon itself, as though it hurts to breathe. He pulls his knees to his chest, muttering beneath his breath.

Tenne leans forward and places her hands on his shoulders in an attempt to calm him, but he is inconsolable. His lips are almost at her hear, and Tenne strains to hear his timid words.

A break in the chorus dulls the music, and Tenne can finally hear what he has been resaying.

"Kill." He whispers in a strangled tone. "Kill the girl."

Tenne blanches.

An object is pressed against her throat before she can comprehend what it is, but the biting sting of the blade and the lustrous glint at the corner of her eye dictates that it is a knife.

Despite his frail stature, Tenne feels herself being hoisted from the floor and dragged across the bar. She attempts to scream, however, the folds of the knife-edge inch deeper into her throat – a warning, at first – and her scream dissolves into a stifled whimper.

"Kill. It." The old man cries hoarsely. "Kill it and kill it and kill it."

Tenne attempts to writhe free of his grip, but his arms are like solid bars, firm and unnatural, and the serrated tip of the blade begins to puncture her skin. Green eyes flash before her vision and she feels herself being wrenched from arms that should have been too brittle to support her.

In an instant, Tenne is flying, soaring and then landing. She skitters across the bartop and knocks her head against one of the beer taps, causing the main valve to explode in a shower of honey-coloured bubbles.

Cold, sticky liquid rapidly descends upon her and Tenne finds herself choking on the bitter substance. It cascades quickly from the broken tap and floods the counter, splashing up into Tenne's eyes and sliding down the sides of her face.

Behind her, Tenne can scarcely hear a man's wails. A scuffle ensues and a sudden cry cuts through the air and drowns out the gurgling sound of gushing beer before giving way to silence.

Several large, deep breaths are expelled from somewhere above her and Tenne flinches when a hand is on her arm, coaxing her to her feet and away from the torrent of beer.

"You okay?" He asks.

Tenne blinks several times and attempts to wipe her eyes against her tank top, which is sticky and sodden.

"T-think so." She stammers, reaching for her throat. The blade merely grazed her flesh, but the sight of her own blood makes her nauseous. "Need the bathroom."

Dean's hands are on Tenne's shoulders in a flash, holding her in place. "Nu-uh. Not after an attack like that. You're comin' with me, sweetheart."

Tenne offers Dean a look of disbelief. If she expected to find humour, then she was sorely mistaken.

His expression is sober. His full, pink lips bear the slightest hint of a bruise, and his eyes are clear and narrow. It's a look that commands compliance, and screams _you-will-not-disobey_.

Suddenly, Tenne doesn't feel compelled to defy him. His hands are empty, but they are coated in blood.

"It ain't safe here." Dean urges, softly pulling her through the wreckage of blood and spilled beer.

Dazed, Tenne questions whether it's safe for her anywhere at this point, but Dean's eyes are soft and earnest, and that's all she needs to convince her otherwise.

Tenne spies her attackers body a small distance away. His eyes are hollow and black. No, not black, but pale blue. Tenne recalls the glimmer of obsidian in his cruel eyes and she shakes her head, submitting to Dean's gentle tugs.

On the way towards the door Tenne pauses beside the broken tap and leans in, taking several large mouthfuls.

"I call this a fair reason to drink." She gasps in between each gulp.

Dean nods, and he doesn't disagree. "Patrons split before the rodeo went down, thankfully. I got liquor back at mine. I think we could bust it out." He says.

Tenne wipes her mouth against the back of her hand and spares a final glance at the old mans crumpled body.

"You got an explanation for me as well?" She asks, guessing that meeting Dean was not an act of chance.

"I do, but you're not gonna like it."

Tenne manages a small nod, but says nothing.

Outside, the crowds are still booming. Men and women fan themselves with rolled magazines, and swat languidly at flies while children suckle on festive lollies and popsickle sticks and the occasional fruit pie.

Tennessee feels the skin on her arms prickle, and it blisters where the sun kisses her flesh. She allows Dean to guide her towards a sleek, black automobile. His eyes are cautious, sweeping back and forth as he surveys the area. Sweat clings to his clavicle like drops of rain, and his skin is glowing beneath the hem of his black muscle shirt. His hand is warm and damp on her bicep, and Tenne drowns in the heat of it.

Tenne's thoughts are blank and for the moment, she attributes that to shock, collapsing onto the warm, black leather beneath her. She gazes ahead as the engine sparks to life. Dean said he had an explanation. Tenne touches her throat and it tingles beneath her fingers. She just hopes that it's a damn good one.

* * *

Okay, so there you have it, chapter one. I know I was a little vague, but a lot will be explained in chapters to come. I just wanted to paint a visual picture first, and I hope I have succeeded in doing that. Reviews are always welcome, I'm always looking to improve my writing and I'd love to hear some feedback, whether it be on the story, the characters, or even my writing style in general. That said, I'm working on chapter two now and look forward to posting it soon!


	2. The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised

Many thanks for the follows, favourites and reviews. They fuel my desires to write, and I hope I don't disappoint you here. Let me know what you think of this chapter, and where you think this is going. I have my idea set, but I'm open to suggestions. Anything to please you guys :) That said, onwards!

* * *

It's been hours and the drive back to Sioux Falls is silent. The sun is descending, but the horizon casts a limpid glow across the bleak landscape, like the one which often precedes an eclipse.

The girl is quiet. Dean calls her a girl, because she is. Only twenty-two years old. What an age to almost have your life snuffed out by the darkness.

Dean watches Tenne. He studies her expression, which morphs from confusion into fear into silent intrigue at regular intervals. She has a small, straight nose that gives way to soft, full lips and eyes like lapis lazuli.

Dean doesn't want to sound girly, but she reminds him of sunbeams and lemonade, radiant and sweet. If an artist were to paint her, his palate would consist of warm, earthy tones, spoiled in patches by soft pastels. Her fair hair is smooth and sun-bleached and her skin is a natural shade of tan, browned by the sun.

The wound on her throat is vertical and neat. It appears almost surgical and although the blood has ceased its flow, beads of it still pepper her collarbone like dried berries.

Dean thinks of Tenne's fate and he wonders if she knows, if she's _always_ known it and it becomes apparent to him that this woman, this _girl_, has no idea what she was intended for. How could anyone ever know, ever even begin to imagine something so horrific?

He didn't know his purpose. Or Sam's, for that matter. But when the pieces begin to come together – after years of questions, after years of pain – like a freakin' jigsaw puzzle, it's a little difficult to ignore.

You can never really prepare yourself for the truth. You cannot deny your destiny, but you can change it.

Tenne releases a small sound and Dean submerges from his musings.

She is sifting through the glove compartment. Her eyes dart back and forth as she studies each object, inspecting each and every badge. Badge after badge after badge, she searches through his possessions, trying to make sense of the situation. When she withdrew the Desert Eagle, Dean was expecting a barrage of questions, only they didn't come.

Amused, Tenne had rolled it over in her hands.

"Huh. Nice gun", she had muttered and for the briefest of moments a look of admiration dawned on her face before her eyes sharpened and became critical once more.

Dean clears his throat. "So, Lafreniere? That's interesting." He speaks, disturbing the silence.

Tenne glances up, only quickly and offers him a slight nod. "It's French."

"It's pretty."

The shadow of a blush is summoned to Tenne's cheekbones and she smiles, resuming her inspection.

"John Bonham." She murmurs, followed by a grin. "Y'do realise that not everyone from the south is a complete yoohoo, right?"

Dean chuckles. "That's the same thing Sam keeps telling me."

"Sam Winchester." Tenne breathes as a glimmer of recognition sparks within her eyes. She stumbles over her fingers and extracts one of the badges. "Your brother?" She asks, holding the card in her hands.

An image of Sam stares back at her and she traces the edge of his chin with her finger. She glances between Dean and the image of the younger man in her hands and nods, as if seeing the resemblance.

Dean takes his eyes off of the road and peers down at the small photo of his brother. It was Sam's student identification. Dean doesn't know why he kept it – perhaps for sentimental value – but the image of his brother unsettles him. Sam's hair was shorter then, and his hazel eyes were soft and round, less sombre than they are now.

Dean frowns, resuming his stare out of the windscreen. "My only brother." He admits.

"I have three." Tenne replies.

Dean knows this, but he allows her to speak any way.

"Two older and one younger. No sisters. The older two are grease monkeys, like my mama. My kid brother though, well he's going to be an engineer. Too smart for the family business." She explains, and she smiles. It's vague and distant, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt rise in his throat like bile. Not only does Tenne's confession shine light onto the fact that she may never get to see her brother become something more, but it also hits a little too close to home.

"You okay, Dean?"

"Sorry. It's just, I can relate."

"Oh." Tenne mutters, running her thumb over Sam's image one last time before returning his ID, along with the others, back to the compartment.

"What about you?"

"What?" Tenne asks.

"What did you do?"

Tenne almost smiles, but the corners of her mouth spiral downwards and became a pout. "Did." She breathes.

"What?" Dean asks, perplexed.

"You just said what _did_ you do? Not what _do_ you do?"

"Shit. I'm sorry."

"No, I get it. I mean, how could I go back to that life after what just happened?" Tenne responds lightly. She's glancing at her fingernails again – a habit, Dean has noticed – and begins to pick at the chipped nail polish. "Now, I'm not superstitious, Dean, believe me, I'm not, but I have a feeling that fate has other plans for me, and I also have a feeling that you know what they are. Why else would you have come to my rescue, weapon at the ready like a freakin' cowboy in those old gunslinger movies? How else could you have known? Why did you save my life?"

Following the sudden outpour of questions he had been expecting since Tenne had entered the vehicle, Dean is silent. In part, it's because he doesn't know which question to answer first, but mostly it's because he doesn't want to answer any of them at all.

"I just want you to tell me the truth." Tenne breathes at last, when the silence becomes so thick it's almost tangible. Her eyes are soft and pleading. Fear and confusion surface within her irises, but there is another emotion hiding within the depths of her eyes, an emotion that Dean can't quite pinpoint. Perhaps it's defiance? Stubbornness? It's a look that reminds him of Sam, and challenges everything Dean has ever stood for.

"I want you to tell me everything." She speaks again, with eyes that demand answers. And Dean does. He speaks, and he doesn't stop speaking. He tells her everything. He tells her of his past – of the fire and the death and his unavoidable destiny. He tells her of the impending apocalypse. He tells her of the lore and the legends. He tells her of vampires and of werewolves, and of beings that can sever your spinal cord with their teeth. He tells her of demons, and she makes the connection to her attacker immediately. And when all the evil has been expelled from his lips, he tells her of the most inconceivable creatures of all. He tells her of angels.

Surprisingly, for someone who is not superstitious, Tenne is incredibly accepting, however, even she pales at the mention of angels.

"Angels." She repeats in a flat tone. "You're tellin' me that this ghost story is ruled by angels?"

Dean almost laughs at the look she gives him, as if she believes he should be surrounded by four walls and a straightjacket. It was the same one he had worn when Castiel – the trench coat donning angel – had opened his appendages and confessed that he was the one who had 'gripped him tight and raised him from perdition'. It had struck the fear of God in him then, and Dean knew that it would do the same to Tenne now.

"Freakin' angels." He murmured, mirroring her expression.

"You sound like a non-believer." Tenne probes, her eyes wary.

"Trust me, I was."

"But you're not now?"

"No." Dean's voice is firm and sure and Tenne shrugs, moving onto her next question.

"So, I come into this … where?"

Dean swallows before speaking and spares Tenne a transient glance. "You know how I just mentioned those seals?" He asks.

"The sixty-six?"

Dean nods. "There's actually more, hundreds more. We hit a brick wall in our search for them, but then about a week ago, we got a blip on our radar. For once, we had a lead on the whereabouts of one of the seals."

Tenne's brows furrow in confusion. "A lead? To where?" She asks.

Dean hesitates.

"Dean, to _where_?" Tenne asks again, insistent. She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her breasts.

Dean considers her slack posture and finds it confronting. At last, he speaks. "To you."

"Me? You're joking." Tenne chokes. To be completely honest, she was expecting an alarming response, but that wasn't it.

"I wish I was. We did some digging into your history and …"

"And?"

"You never told me about your father, Tenne." Dean breathes, offering her a meek look.

"Never knew him." She responds in a clipped tone. It sounds as if she wants to drop the subject entirely, but Dean presses on.

"He was a … " Dean pauses, having a sudden change of heart. "Look, maybe we should wait until we get back to Sioux Falls?" He suggests.

When Tenne speaks, it startles Dean. Her tone is calm, but powerful. It's fear, laced in fury, laced in cool indifference.

"No, Dean. Whatever it is, you tell me now." She commands.

There's silence, and then Dean responds.

"He was a demon, Tennessee."

"A what?"

"A demon."

"No, I heard you the first time, I'm just finding that a little hard to believe."

When she speaks, Dean notices that her face grows paler, making her eyes stand out, like two magnificent blue orbs.

"He studied humans. Was fascinated by them. Hell, he even took one to bed. Your mom."

Tenne laughs. It's low and derisive. "And that's supposed to comfort me? How is that even possible?" She questions.

Dean shrugs and takes one of his hands off of the steering wheel so that he can run it through his short hair. "Demons have a way of … persuading people." He explains.

"My mother was a faithful woman, Dean."

"I ain't saying that she wasn't, but demons –"

" – have a way of persuading people. Yeah, I get it." If Tenne's nonchalance was baffling, her anger is startling. "Wow, so my mother gave birth to an abomination." She seethes, gripping her sides so tightly that her knuckles become white.

"You're not an abomination." Dean attempts to reason.

"No? Then why are they trying to kill me, Dean?"

"Because you're one of the seals, Tenne." Dean blurts out suddenly. "If you die - "

"- then we're one step closer to the apocalypse." Tenne exhales.

She appears to deflate and Dean utters a soft "Bingo."

"Well then, you know the solution, don't you?" Tenne becomes serious, and when she meets Dean's gaze, her eyes are wilful. "We make sure I don't die. Should be a piece of cake, right?"

Dean can't answer that question, and instead, he offers Tenne a weak smile but even he knows that it's not convincing.

Tenne remains silent for the remainder of the trip back to Sioux Falls. Dean's eyes wander to her from time to time, but her mind is miles away.

She's recalling the time her younger brother had almost bit it, pushed into deaths waiting arms by a stout, brutish child. A sudden shove and uneven gravel had sent her little brother soaring over the edge of a bank and into the bottomless ravine. He'd almost drowned, but by some miracle, Tenne was able to wrench him from the black water and breathe life back into his lungs. She remembers how cold it was; how the water had rushed to meet her. She remembers the look of fear on her brother's face as it swallowed his form, and of how she almost allowed it to swallow her too. That day, she prayed not to the angels, but to death, and thanked him kindly for sparing her brother. She also thanked her eldest brother Cole for years of roughhousing, because later that same day, she broke her first nose.

She remembers the simplicity of her life – the fierce protectiveness she had over her siblings, even if the older two could beat her to a bloody pulp – and wonders if it will ever be the same again.

Dean's expression confirms that it won't be, and she feels herself sinking into the black water all over again, only this time, there are creatures in the darkness with her. Creatures with teeth and claws and eyes like the night. And there are creatures of fire. They scare her the most.

* * *

Okay, so a bit of back-story tossed into the mix. I'll do that from time to time so that you get a feel of what Tenne is like, where she comes from, what her beliefs are etc etc. I prefer flash-backs over descriptions. I think it's a bit more intimate. So, this was originally going to be two chapters, but I merged them into one and cut out the unnecessary bits. Normally, I'd drag out the suspense, but I didn't. I kind of want to move forward with this because there is much more to come. So bam, the bombshell has been dropped, but that's only the beginning. There's no way in Hell any normal person could accept that kind of information just like that. Struggles to accept, friendship, bonding and cuteness will ensue! Along with some angst and drama … because we all love a brooding Winchester :P


	3. Stupid to Lean, Stupider to Fall

And here we have it, chapter three. Let me know what you think!

* * *

It's dark when Dean steers the Impala into – what appears to be – an abandoned car yard. The sun has since disappeared, and the moon did not emerge to replace it. Not tonight. An aged, disjointed sign is suspended above them. The metal has been tarnished and Tenne can barely discern the faded letters. Dean tells her that it reads _Singer's Auto Salvage_.

The headlights guide their way as Dean leads them down a winding, dirt trail and Tenne gasps when an old Victorian house emerges from behind a mountain of used car parts. Tenne imagines that it was once very beautiful, however years of neglect have made the lot appear cluttered and shambolic. The windows are bordered and reinforced by thick panels of wood and the front yard has been swallowed by the wilderness, over-run by weeds and leaf-litter. The paint – which was blue – is now dull and faded and vines twine the railings like serpents.

Two men, each holding a beer, are waiting for them on the front porch.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a welcome home party." Dean says as he removes his keys from the ignition and exits the vehicle.

Following Dean's actions, Tenne finds the gravel below and steps out of the vehicle. It crunches beneath her boots and she immediately feels the warmth once more as a light breeze caresses her cheeks.

In an instant, Tenne realises her discomfit. Her tank top, which has since dried, is now stiff and creased. Her hair is sticky and smells like beer, and dried blood still clings to her flesh.

Dean has joined the other two figures on the porch. She knows that she should have joined them as well by now, but all she can think of is how dishevelled she must look … and how badly she needs a shower.

She takes two steps, then pauses. Her eyes meet the sky. Soon, it will be alight with colour. She wonders if she'll get the chance to watch the fireworks from this distance and shakes her head at the impossibility of it. Perhaps it would have been her last act of normalcy before she dove headfirst into the unnatural.

"Well, you goin' to just stand there and look pretty or are you goin' to come over and meet us?" The older man calls. His voice is gruff and enriched in a familiar, Southern twang.

Tenne ambles towards them. She can hear the reluctance in her short, messy strides and picks up her pace in an attempt to assuage her growing anxiety.

When she reaches them, Tenne ascends the short flight of stairs and makes eye contact with a familiar face. She opens her mouth to speak, however, Dean directs her attention towards another face, one she does not recognise.

"Tenne, this is Bobby Singer, owner of this charming little establishment. He's an old friend. And I mean _old_." Dean says, swiftly dodging an aged paw.

Bobby shakes his head and breathes an endearing, "Idgit", before meeting Tenne's gaze.

Beneath the brim of his faded truckers cap, his eyes are soft and wise. Tenne smiles and offers Bobby her hand. He smells like baking grease and whiskey. It's a scent that scarcely reminds her of home, and Tenne feels the innate need to trust this man. "Nice to see a little Southern hospitality." She breathes.

"It's good to see you in one piece, kid." He replies, taking her hand. When they shake, it's firm and quick and Tenne notes the roughness of his palm. He has the hands of a labourer, hardened by years of drudgery.

"It's good to be in one piece." She mutters.

"You must be Sam." She says, meeting memorable hazel eyes. Her first thought is that he's tall, at least, much taller than she is. He offers her a slight nod and when he smiles, it's all teeth and dimples.

Tenne feels her cheeks begin burn and supresses a gasp. His eyes, coupled with the delicate hollows of his cheeks are almost as effective as his brothers winning smile. It's only then that her stomach grumbles and she realises that she hasn't eaten since the morning.

"You hungry?" Bobby asks. When he speaks, Tenne can hear the concern in his tone. Although weary, his voice is almost soft – paternal.

"Starved." Dean interjects.

Bobby nods and steps aside. "Come on in, I've got some grub cooking in the oven."

After Sam and Bobby enter the house, Tenne latches onto Dean's shirt sleeve.

"How about that bottle?" She asks. Her eyes are fervent, and although she's tired, the need to drown out the absurdity that has consumed her life since that morning is overwhelming.

Dean nods and leads her inside, his hand resting on the small of her back.

Tenne's hair is damp when she emerges from the shower. Over dinner – which was a meek concoction of burnt sausages and left over potato salad – she had listened to them speak.

They talked of the seals, and of angels and of demons – demons named Crowley. Tenne wondered whether that was her father, and immediately felt stupid. Whoever he was, she needn't know. He may have had a hand in creating her, but she owed him nothing and she owed it to herself not to ponder on such things.

Tenne feels the carpet beneath her bare feet and drifts out of the bathroom, holding the towel tightly around her waist.

There is a plaid shirt draped across the bed. She traces the collar with the tips of her fingers and smiles. It smells like leather and aftershave and gasoline. It's Dean's.

She drops her towel and slides into the over-large shirt. The sleeves are far too long, but the cotton is soft and light against her skin.

After she emerges from her room – her hair damp – Dean is waiting for her downstairs.

"Good, it fits … kind of." He says as he gestures towards his dark plaid shirt, which rests comfortably against Tenne's mid-thigh. "It'll suffice. At least, until we get you some new clothes."

"Here, I bought this for you."

Dean hands Tenne a bottle of rum and she accepts it.

"Thanks." She murmurs. Her eyes meet Dean's as she raises the bottle to her lips and she holds his gaze as the hot liquid slides down her throat. It burns, and she welcomes the sensation, bringing feeling to the numbness.

She suspects the liquor has been laced in holy water and when she exhales, she can almost feel her lungs wheeze in detest and she can almost see the smoke expel from her lips. Like it would a demon.

"Follow me." Dean demands, and for the second time that day, Tenne finds herself obeying Dean's request as she follows him out of the front door and towards the Impala.

"This is where we keep all the fun." He tells her, moving towards the rear of the Impala.

Dean opens the boot and Tenne's eyes widen so that they become small moons. The contents of the boot astonish her, and she distantly speculates how such an arsenal could remain undetected by the law enforcement.

Amongst the artillery and the many sigils that are carved into the underside of the hood, Tenne spies a large duffel bag. She reaches for it and pulls it towards her.

"What's in here?" She asks, half-expecting to find a decomposing body. She laughs at her morbid thoughts, and her laugh only heightens when firecrackers pour out of the bag and into the boot. Along with Cherry Bombs, there are sparklers and Roman candles and Butterflies.

"The fun." Dean restates, collecting the fallen crackers and removing them from the boot.

Tenne marvels over the many fireworks, but she finds that something is missing. She prefers the Five Stars. They always astonished her, the way they'd boom and then crackle, leaving behind a vivid trail of smoke.

"These don't look legal." She says.

"They're not." Dean replies. His green eyes are light and mischievous.

"What about the police?"

"Trust me, they know better than to come out here looking for trouble."

Tenne bites her bottom lip, doubtful. "You sure 'bout this?" She asks.

To prove his certainty, Dean extracts one of the Cherry Bombs and lights it up. Tenne barely has time to gasp before he launches it into the air, like a grenade, and watches on as it explodes with a loud _bang_.

Clutching her chest, Tenne smiles. "So, you're a hunter _and_ a pyro-technician." She breathes.

"Honey, I'm a lot of things."

"Well, I hope you're also a paramedic 'cause these things look lethal."

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart, if you need mouth-to-mouth, I think I can manage that."

Tenne rolls her eyes and is sorely tempted to slap Dean for his smart mouth. Instead, she says, "I meant for stitches."

Dean smirks. "Well in that case, I've got some whiskey, a needle and some dental floss."

"Good to know." Tenne replies as one of her eyebrows slowly ascends towards her hairline.

"So, how are you dealing with all this?" Dean asks as he unloads the remaining fireworks.

"I'm … managing." Tenne replies. "This helps." She adds, lazily raising the bottle in her hand.

Dean's eyes search hers for a hint of humour, and he finds it there, if only just. "I'll bet it does." He states.

"I don't think the reality of it all has set in just yet." Tenne admits, watching her nails once more.

"Trust me, it will."

"You've gotta admit though, it's a little hard to believe. I'm struggling to accept this whole 'pre-determined destiny' crap."

"You and me both." He confesses.

"What does it even mean to be half-human and half-demon?" She asks, leaning against the boot. She doesn't care that her feet are bare, but she's cautious nonetheless. Metal litters the floor like compost, and she uses her big toe to draw symbols in the dirt. "Do I get cool powers? We already know I didn't inherit the super strength."

Dean leans against the boot beside her and stares off into the distance. "Honestly, I think you're just unlucky." He admits. His eyes meet hers and Tenne believes him.

"That explains a lot." She mutters. And Hell, if Dean thought she looked dejected in the car, it pales in comparison to the way she looks now.

Dean wants to take her into his arms and hug her, but Sam's voice is near when he calls out to him.

"Dean. You going to help me light up these suckers or what?" He asks, approaching them.

Dean spares Tenne one last glance.

Tenne is staring at him, and her expression is … undecipherable, intense. It surprises Dean, and that alone is surprising.

"What's that look for?" He probes, searching her eyes for a hint of something he can recognize – maybe pain, or fear, or _something_. Something that doesn't _surprise_ him.

Tenne presses the bottle against her lips and tears her gaze away. "It's nothing."

Dean frowns and turns away from her, prepared to help Sam.

_Nothing_, he muses. _Right._

* * *

Dean's counting down the seconds before the fireworks that he and Sam assembled are set to detonate.

Sam and Bobby are seated in lawn chairs. There's a rough picnic blanket sprawled across the grass in front of them, and Tenne finds herself sitting in top on it, beside Dean, watching him.

"Five."

There's a radiance in Dean's eyes, a distant happiness, a reflection of hope. It's almost nostalgic.

"Four."

There's also sadness there. And desperation. And lonliness.

"Three."

But there's excitement too. Longing. Desire.

"Two."

Dean glances back at Sam and the brothers share a moment – unspoken, intimate. And Dean's face is immaculate – a face with far too many emotions.

"One."

She finds herself leaning into Dean and places her head on his shoulder.

She isn't sure that she is in the right frame of mind, but for the moment, this feels right. Dean feels right. Besides, there is no harm in leaning, so long as she doesn't fall.

He'll guide her. Mentor her. With Sam and Bobby's help, perhaps he'll be able to save her.

As she watches the fireworks explode above, she finds it hard not to think of her family, but guilt and a sense of helplessness drive those thoughts far from her mind.

Red, green and gold, bang after bang, one after the other, the colourful display unfurls above them. And she loses herself in it all – in the colour and in the sounds and in the feel of Dean's solid shoulder beneath her chin, because she knows that before long, she'll have to give up on the simplicities such as these, and so she leans in a little closer … even though it's stupid.


	4. When Push Comes to Shove

Alrighty, I bring you chapter four! I can only hope that you reward me with reviews! :P

* * *

It's been weeks. Bobby is pouring over newspaper articles in the study, but the media is silent. Papers are strewn across the desk, along with coffee mugs and empty beer bottles. Despite the supernatural paraphernalia within his possession, it appears that even the press has chosen to be discreet, possibly for fear of causing mass hysteria, or for alternative reasons. Whatever it is, their lack of reports is disconcerting and Bobby finds himself flailing in a steaming pile of nothing. There has been no news of supernatural occurrences; no electrical storms or strange deaths, no increase in paranormal activity, just nothing, and since Tenne's arrival, the angels have remained withdrawn.

Bobby glances out of the window, a bottle in his hands, and his eyes settle on the girl. Dean is teaching Tenne a lesson in parrying. Like Dean, Bobby agrees that she is too young. Too inexperienced.

Dean pushes the girl into the dirt, staining her pale t-shirt. Bobby had recovered a small box of clothes from the attic. They were his nieces' possessions. She had left them there over the summer, while she stayed with her mother in Santorini. Luckily, Tenne was small and the clothes – although tight – fit almost perfectly. Tenne struggles beneath Dean's powerful grip. Suddenly, she fists the ground and pivots, flinging dirt into his eyes. Using his distraction as an advantage, Tenne squirms free and repositions herself, ready for another attack.

Bobby smiles. Maybe there's hope for her yet.

Sam releases a soft chuckle. He observes them from the hammock. His father's journal lies open in his lap, but he lost focus long ago. Instead, he watches his brother reassemble and wipe the dust from his eyes as he mutters something about 'playing dirty'.

Sam laughs and his eyes wander to Tenne. She's determined, but she's also strained, exhausted and she winces when Dean delivers a swift blow to her ribcage and twists her arm in a way that would have snapped it, had he applied the right amount of pressure.

"Too slow." Dean grunts, releasing Tenne's arm and pushing her forward so that she stumbles over the uneven earth.

Tenne pants and backs up a few steps. She leans forward and places her hands on her thighs in an attempt to conquer her gag reflex.

"Remind me again … why you find it necessary that we train outside, under the blazing sun?" She gasps. Tenne can feel beads of sweat spring to her brow, and her palms are clammy. The warm weather has become stifling, leaving the ground bare and scorched. A flock of birds gathers near them, their mouths open and their wings fanned outward, parched. Tenne cannot recall a drier period in her life. Then again, she figures that the heat could be attributed to the forthcoming 'end-of-the-world'. Hell _was_ in the process of being raised after all.

"You're not concentrating." Dean speaks. Despite the fact that Tenne is dressed in nothing more than a light t-shirt and Daisy Dukes, he is wearing a plaid shirt over a dark grey singlet. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his pale denim jeans are rife with holes.

Tenne releases a long breath. "Admittedly, I'm findin' it a little hard to." She says . "It's been hours, Dean and my muscles are achin'."

"That's because you're weak." He responds quickly.

"This ain't a fair fight." Tenne groans, watching Dean's frown evolve into a grin. He's handsome. Too handsome, she thinks. Freckles bespatter his nose and more than once, when he was within close proximity, Tenne has found herself attempting to count them. Now, his hot skin only serves as a distraction and it doesn't help that his taut muscles and damp flesh make her feel feverish.

"Would you prefer to practice with Sam?" Dean asks, gesturing towards his brother.

Dean beckons his brother over, and Sam tilts his head to one side.

Tenne considers Sam's physique as he strides towards them. He has the body of a quarter back. Long and lean and muscular. She imagines coming to blows with _that_ and cringes.

"No. Not really." She mumbles.

"Then quit your whinging and come at me again."

Tenne ejects a short breath. "This is the last time." She warns.

"Make it count and it will be." Dean replies, and Tenne almost growls. It's funny, how smugness and arrogance can override attractiveness in a heartbeat.

Tenne lunges for Dean and he side-steps her with ease. Luckily, she was anticipating his move and quickly spins before landing a solid kick to Dean's right thigh. Dean stumbles forward and Tenne pushes him hard against the chest, causing him to fall back into the dirt.

"Better?" She asks, kneeling before him.

Dean meets Tenne's gaze and nods. "Better."

"Nice move." Sam comments as he reaches them.

Tenne smiles, and Dean grimaces. "You got lucky." He says, rising to his feet.

Sam and Tenne both roll their eyes.

"So, we're just going to hole up here until this whole thing blows over?" Tenne asks, leading them towards a small patch of shade.

"You are." Dean responds, fruitlessly attempting to brush the dust from his jeans.

"What about you?" Tenne asks, curious.

"Sam and I have some business we need to take care of."

"I'm comin' with you." Tenne says. This startles Sam and he shifts his gaze to his brother, who looks stunned and then adamant.

"No, you're not." Dean replies.

"Yes, I am." Tenne counters.

"No, you're _not_."

"Yes, I _am_."

"Well, you can't." Dean speaks, and it is with an air of finality. "I already saved your life once. Don't make me do it again."

"Right, because you're such a hero." Tenne scoffs as her arms slide over her breasts. "D'you ever stop worryin'? I ain't as impotent as you think."

"Seriously? You think you can handle yourself out there, huh, sweetheart? Proove it." Dean challenges.

"You wanna see proof? Hand me your gun."

"What?" Dean stammers.

"Your gun. Hand it to me."

Cautiously, Dean extracts his gun from inside his leather jacket, which is lying beneath the shade and hands it to Tenne.

Tenne accepts the gun with a triumphant smile and gestures towards a chain link fence a fair distance away.

"You see them cans over there?" She asks, drawing his attention towards a line of cans wedged in between the links.

Dean nods.

"If I can hit all six, I get to make my own decisions. I decide when I stay and when I go."

Dean offers Sam and careful look, and the youngest Winchester shrugs.

"Seems like a fair deal to me, Dean." He says.

"Okay, fine." Dean submits. "Knock yourself out."

Tenne manages to hit five out of the six cans first go, and discharges only seven bullets. She pouts, and then hands Dean his gun back.

"I would have hit 'em all first go if it wasn't for that damn look on your face distractin' me." She says, smirking at the eldest hunter.

Dean glances at Tenne with disbelief and he closes his mouth, which was parted in shock.

Sam releases an impressed huff. "Huh. It looks like she showed you, Dean."

Dean's look of shock quickly becomes defiant. "Fine, whatever. The girl can shoot, but she still can't fight." He says, swiftly twisting Tenne's arm behind her and forcing her back against him, so that it is flush against his chest. He pushes the tip of the barrel into the centre of her spine and smiles.

"See." Dean breathes, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear. "You're dead."

Tenne writhes free of his grip and attempts to make a connection between her fist and his jaw. Dean swiftly closes his hand around her knuckles and points the gun between her eyes. Sweat trickles down the bridge of her nose, past the barrel and Tenne's eyes lock onto Dean's; blue meeting green.

"Dead again." He whispers.

"Jesus, alright, you made your point. Let me go." Tenne whines, rubbing her arm as Dean releases her.

When Dean speaks, it would be the last word and Tenne knows it.

"You'll make your own decisions when you can prove to us that you won't get yourself killed." He says. He then collects his belongings and retreats, mentioning that he is in search of some celebratory pie.

"You'll have to excuse my brother. He thinks his ass weighs a tonne." Sam says, compassionate.

Tenne sighs and glances at her shirt, which is covered in dirt. "I might not be the strongest, Sam, but you put a burner in my hands and I'm not entirely useless." She says.

"Yeah, no kidding." Sam replies. "Who taught you to shoot?"

"My mama. She always said 'idle hands are the devil's tools'. She made sure that my brothers and I could properly defend ourselves. Pretty hard to attack someone when you're chokin' on lead, right?"

Sam laughs and folds his hand into his pockets. Like his brother, he too is dressed inappropriately for the season. "Sounds like a rough upbringing."

"Kind of like yours?" Tenne asks with a knowing smirk.

Sam smiles. "Kind of."

"Dean makes out like I'm a damsel, but you were right in saying that your brother thinks his ass weighs a tonne. I may be rubbish when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, I always have been, but in my defence, I'm still a girl."

"Oh, so you're playing the gender card?" Sam asks, raising a single brow.

"Of course I am. Look at me." Tenne says, sweeping a hand over herself. "I'm like an insect next to you and your brother."

"I wouldn't say insect. You look like you've got some definition going on in your legs." Sam comments, eyeing her toned figure.

Tenne blushes. "The only upside to years of sports and track." She explains.

"So you're fast?" Sam asks, surprised.

"Faster than you I reckon."

Sam chuckles. "Oh-ho, is that a challenge?" He asks.

"Maybe."

Sam monitors Tenne's light expression and narrows his gaze for a moment. "Sure, let's say that you could beat me in a race. I mean, the faster you are, the better chance you have of running away from danger when your puny arms fail you in close combat, right?"

Tenne laughs and lightly hits Sam's shoulder. "Well, sorry. Not everyone is made of meat, Sam."

Sam rolls his shoulders. Her smile is light, but her eyes bear a burden that even her lips can't conceal.

"I'm sorry you had to get dragged into all of this." He says. Tenne shakes her head, and before she can initiate a lengthy stare with her fingernails, Sam takes her hand into his own, engaging her full attention. "I mean it."

Looking into Sam's eyes is like looking into a glass half-filled with whiskey. One half is full of light and hope and determination, but the other half is empty. Closed-off. She wanders whether Sam, like his brother, has a secret to hide. It wouldn't surprise her.

Tenne exhales. "Why would you be sorry? It ain't like you started the apocalypse and tricked my mama into bedding a demon." She explains.

"That sounds pretty messed up when you put it like that." Sam declares and Tenne can feel his empathy, although the smile that surfaces to his lips alleviates the tension within his words.

"From what you've been telling me, all the seals sound pretty messed up." She admits.

"And there are hundreds more out there."

"Hundreds." Tenne repeats. "And I'm only one. Even if I manage to stay alive, when push comes to shove, I'm keepin' you and your brother from your destinies."

Sam frees Tenne's hand and grins, bearing his dimples. "Screw destiny."

Tenne laughs, and Sam revels in the sound of it because it's genuine. For once, it isn't laced in sarcasm, or shielding a wince.

"Sam Winchester, now what would your angel pally's have to say about that?"

Sam scoffs. "They're not my pals. They look at me with revulsion. They think I'm an abomination." Resentment shadows Sam's face and hangs in his eyes like a dark cloud. Tenne imagines that it's a cover, because what Sam really feels is hurt. At least, that's how she would feel.

"Well, that makes two of us." She breathes, flippant.

"I think I like you, Miss Lafreniere."

Tenne sighs, grateful. Sam's confession is innocent, platonic. "I think I like you too, Sam." She admits.

Sam smiles. "That's good. Just don't tell Dean." He breathes in a playful tone.

Tenne frowns. "And why not?"

When he smiles, it's bold and teasing and more Dean than it is Sam. "No reason." He mutters. "I'll let you think about it."

Tenne purses her lips and watches Sam saunter back towards the house. When he's half-way there, he casts a glance at her over his shoulder and winks.

Tenne's cheeks begin to burn.

_No feelings_, she tells herself.

Dean is standing at the end of the porch. He nudges Sam's shoulder as he passes him and the brothers share a brief smile. He then holds up a glass of lemonade and smirks. Tenne swallows and finds herself repeating it again, like a mantra.

_No feelings, _her mind repeats, baiting the silence._ Yeah right, _her heart whispers.


	5. I Burn Just to be Near Your Glow

Sorry about the delay with this chapter, guys. I've been a little busy as of late. I needed to get this chapter done and out of the way, so I can move into the plot. Now that the ice has been broken, so to speak, I think some serious drama can begin :P

* * *

When Castiel reappears, it is in the centre of Bobby's living room.

Dean is seated on the windowsill. A glass of rum is cradled in his hands and he winces each time he raises it to his lips. He is nursing several bruised ribs and an injured shoulder; the consequences of his latest mission. In spite of their efforts, it had proven fruitless. Anna, their charge, had been seized by the angels. Although that was the plan, it had left Dean feeling inept; a feeling that was momentarily shadowed by dread, dread spurred by the appearance of Alistair.

Seeing Alistair alive, corporeal, was like reliving a nightmare. His true face may have been hidden, but the evil that emanated from his fleshy confines was as familiar to Dean as the back of his hand.

Tenne – against her own will – had stayed behind. Although she had cursed him for not allowing her to accompany them, it brought him some relief. He didn't imagine that she would have taken very kindly to plummeting out of a second story window.

He also didn't want her asking questions. Questions that Dean knows Sam is burning to ask him now. Questions that involve Alistair and his time in Hell.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel breathes; his voice deep and grave.

Dean jerks forward and he spills the better half of his rum over the couch, adding to the many splotches that cover its faded exterior.

"Damn it, Cas." He breathes, wiping the bottom of the glass against his jeans in order to prevent it from dripping. "The hell, dude? Don't you know better than to startle a man when he's holding a drink?"

Curious, Castiel evaluates Dean for a moment and quirks his brow.

"I'm sorry. I did not realise." He says.

Dean peels off his outer shirt and begins to dab at the wet spot. "Whatever. It's fine."

"I see that you have located one of the seals." Castiel mentions coolly.

Dean glances up. The angel is dressed, as he often is, in a dark suit and pale trench coat. He attempts to read Castiel, but his blue eyes are blank, clouding whatever emotions his vessel may have been displaying and he appears as he always does; rigid and _annoyingly impassive_.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Chyeah, no thanks to you and your winged buddies. Where have you been, man?"

"Preoccupied." The angel replies flatly. "The hunt for the remaining seals is proving much more difficult than anticipated. We have encountered a … complication."

"A complication? You're going to have to be a little less cryptic than that, Fly Boy."

"Your brother, Dean."

"Sammy?" Dean asks, confused. "What about him?"

"It appears that his actions do not support our objective."

"What are you talking about?"

Castiel does not respond immediately. Instead, he holds Dean's gaze, and again, Castiel looks like the embodiment of a God – a _real_ angel, a pinnacle of Heaven – the way that Dean imagines them. Righteous and unforgiving and judgy. God, did he look _judgy_.

Dean can't remember a time when he'd ever felt this distinctly human, vulnerable and weak and _basic_. Castiel lowers his gaze, and he draws his eyes away from Dean. At last, he speaks.

"Inform your brother that if he does not stop, then we will be forced to take action. And it will not be pleasant."

Surprised, Dean takes a gallant step forward, although in his mind, it feels tentative. "Tell him to stop?" He asks. "Stop what?"

Castiel inclines his head. He looks … conflicted. It's almost as if he wants to respond, but his mouth is thin and taut, as though his lips have sewn themselves together. It's a shift in his demeanour, subtle, but it's there.

"Cas?" Dean urges, beseeching a response. "Stop what?"

There's a brief pause and Dean isn't entirely surprised when his questions are met with silence and Castiel zaps out of existence, leaving behind nothing but the distant sound of fluttering wings to indicate that he was even there in the first place, but it leaves him feeling unresolved.

"Damnit!" He breathes

"Hey, you okay? I heard voices." A hoarse voice begins. Bobby appears at the door way. His truckers cap is slightly skewed and where his hair escapes the worn material, it's messy and tangled.

Dean shakes his head. "Fine. Just received a visit from our friendly neighbourhood cloudhopper."

"Castiel was here?" Bobby asks, releasing a yawn.

Dean nods. "Customary douchey trench coat and all."

"What'd he want?"

Dean hesitates. He doesn't know why, but he refrains from telling Bobby why Castiel had appeared, and what message he had delivered relating to his brother. He didn't want to believe that Sam was committing acts that went against the angels wishes, which nowadays seemed to be their just cause.

"I'm not sure." He admits when he finds his voice, and it isn't entirely a lie. "But I intend to find out."

* * *

Tenne arches back and clutches her ribs; her laughter is light, effervescent. She is in the yard, chasing birds with Abe and Herc. The terriers growl and then pounce, bounding after the flock with determination.

Tenne leans forward and collects an old tennis ball from a patch of clovers. The dogs falter and then crouch – their hunt forgotten – pink tongues dangling from their broad muzzles. Tenne waves the ball in front of their faces and their small, beady eyes follow it, like moths to a flame.

Herc launches at her – his tail wagging – and nips lightly at her fist. Tenne steps back and withdraws her hand, raising it high above her head.

"Not so fast, Hercules." She teases.

Abe releases a loud whine and flops forward, landing with a powerful thud on his chest. The sunlight bounces off of his back and bathes his red and white fur in a soft titian glow.

Tenne laughs. "Oh, Abram, you quitter." She mutters, launching the ball high into the air.

Herc dashes forward, stumbling over his large feet in an attempt to seize the ball before it lands. His blue hide disappears beneath the tall brush at the end of the yard and Tenne smirks, waiting for him to reappear.

"So, you're the lazy one?" She asks, raising her eyebrow at the docile creature beside her.

Abe stares at her and cocks his head to one side. In response, he rolls onto his back and releases a long sigh. It's almost as if he understands her and Tenne lets out a laugh.

"Having fun?"

Tenne smiles at Dean. Even outside, beneath the sun, the shadows seem to find him, illuminating his angles – his is high cheekbones and his rigid jawline – in shades of white and yellow and gold.

He's breathtaking and Tenne has to remind herself not to blush, or in the very least, make an attempt to conceal the fact that she was checking him out. _Again_.

Hercules is at her feet, his tail wagging. He glances at the ball, and then at her, expectant.

Saliva coats the ball and Tenne frowns. She bends forward and wipes it along the grass in an attempt to remove some of the spit.

"Trying to." She replies.

She glances at the ball and then drops it to her feet. Hercules springs forth and captures his prize before he saunters off – probably with the intention of burying it.

"Wanna get outta this heat before you turn into a leather couch?" Dean asks, pinching Tenne's shoulder, which is dry and warm from the sun.

Tenne smirks and leads Dean back towards the porch. They take a seat on the swing chair and Tenne drags her feet over the floor, the top of her toes barely tracing patterns in the dust.

"What's got you looking so pensive?" Dean asks.

"That isn't the word I'd use." Tenne replies, folding a piece of hair behind her ear.

"No?" Dean asks, leaning forward. He glances back at her and smirks and she hates it, because it's all-knowing. And maybe just a little bit beautiful.

"Okay." She relents, releasing a long breath. "I spoke to my brother today." She admits. She suspects that Dean will be mad, but she doesn't care. She could shut out her denial and her regret, but she couldn't shut out her burning desire to speak to her siblings. She wanted to confide in them. She wanted them to know everything. She wanted to kiss them and hug them and tell them to line their windowsills with salt tracks, but for the meantime, the best that she could do was inform them that she was okay, and that they shouldn't expect her home soon.

Rather than enraged, Dean appears somewhat curious when he responds. "Oh. What'd you tell him?"

Tenne shrugs. "The truth … kind of. I told him I was stayin' with a friend a couple of towns over. He bought the whole story about the bar being broken into, and about the old man bein' suicidal. He said he understood, and that I shouldn't stay gone for too long."

"Well, that buys us some time."

"I know. I just hate that I can't be honest with him. I mean, I'm havin' trouble enough as it is trying to wrap my head around this whole crazy situation, no offence."

Dean shrugs. "None taken."

"You're lucky to have someone, y'know. You're lucky you can talk to your brother about everything."

"Well, not _everything_."

Tenne frowns and raises her eyebrow. Dean continues. "Don't get me wrong, he's my brother and I love him like nothing else, but even our relationship ain't perfect. There are some things I can't tell him. I get the feeling that that goes both ways. There are some things that we don't share. And some things that I wish we would."

A smile touches Tenne's lips and she flicks Dean's ear in a playful manner. "Truth be told, you don't seem like the touchy-feely type to me. That's not such a bad thing." She says.

Dean returns the gesture and Tenne releases a soft whine and reaches for her ear.

"He had a girl once, you know?" Dean begins, reaching for a topic he deems innocuous. Something safe. Something that he can distance himself from.

Tenne glances down and a pout spoils her complexion. "He never mentioned it." She mutters.

Dean nods. "Yeah, she was gorgeous. Blonde. Kind of like you."

Dean's following glance catches her off guard, and if Tenne blushes, she pretends that she didn't.

"What happened?" She asks, attempting to swallow the sudden knot in her throat.

"Demons happened. As they always do. You get within two inches of something good, and they barge in and snatch it away."

Tenne watches Dean speak, watches the way his eyes harden and his nostrils flare and she can feel his resentment like she can feel the wooden splinters beneath her feet. He practically spits the word _demon_ and it almost makes her recoil.

"D'you think you could ever do that?" She asks.

"Do what?"

"Settle down?"

Dean smiles. "Nah. I mean, there was a time, I guess, for a little while, where I thought I could have that kind of life. A normal job, a girl."

"But not now?"

"Nope." Dean replies. "But what about you? Let's say we get through this. Do you think you could have a normal life?"

Tenne bites her bottom lip before she speaks. _Does she?_

"I do." She confesses, and although she isn't entirely certain that she _could_, she would try any way. "I mean, I don't think I could ever go back to the bar, for obvious reasons, but I think it's possible. For all of us. Call me sentimental, but I can see Sam moving on with his life. I see him goin' back to college. He'll meet a nice girl. Brunette. Safe. They'll watch movies and attend mixers together. I can even see Bobby moving on too, Abe and Herc at his side, with a tumbler in his hand and a smile on his face, watching the sun go down. I can see that for them."

A small smile finds Dean lips. "And what about me? What do you see for me?" He asks.

Tenne doesn't hesitate when she replies. "I see you happy, Dean." She breathes. "Grease covers your hand, and there's a radio playing classic rock at the back of your work shop."

Dean laughs. "So, of all things, in your little theoretical world, I'm a mechanic?"

Tenne nods. "And a damn good one at that."

There is a momentary pause, and then Dean asks her something that catches her off guard. "D'you see a girl for me as well?"

When Tenne meets Dean's gaze, his eyes are earnest, imploring even, and she swallows. Her tongue touches her top lip and Dean's fingers brush against hers. Where their flesh meets, it tingles and then burns.

She nods.

"I do." She breathes, staring into Dean's eyes. They're green. Dark green. She doubts she's ever seen a pair of eyes contain this many emotions, or that she ever would again, and they enthral her.

Dean holds her gaze and leans forward. "Good, 'coz that's the only thing I see." He murmurs, his voice a breath above a whisper.

They're close now. So very close. His hairs are golden where the sun catches them and his freckles blend as one, blurring in and out of focus. And just when Tenne is certain that she'll pull away, she feels it. This wonderful, terrible and incredible _it_. It starts as a burning sensation, so soft, Tenne isn't sure whether she imagined it or not but the longer Dean stares at her, the stronger it becomes, and she isn't so sure she would have the willpower to pull away.

Dean wets his lips, and then he stares at hers. Briefly, her mind draws up a list of pro's and con's.

_Pro. He's handsome. _Scratch that._ Ridiculously handsome. _Tenne fails to conjure up a con and considers another pro._ He's strong. _And then another._ He's protective. _And then another._ He's loyal._

Dean's bottom lip brushes against hers, soft and full. _Handsome. Strong. Protective. Loyal._ Dean's breath is warm and close and tastes like Captain Morgan. Suddenly, her mind conjures up another string of adjectives. _Hot. Near. Soft. Want._ So what if everything else was a con? Maybe if she just … leaned a little closer … it wouldn't be so bad … if she just …

Sam's cough by the door way alerts them of his presence.

Dean jerks backwards so quickly he pops a stitch. Blood begins to seep through his shirt, dark and wet and Tenne smothers her groan with a laugh because it's the only thing she can do.

"Shit", Dean utters.

When Tenne glances up, Sam is smirking at them and it infuriates her as much as it embarrasses her.

"Bad timing?" He asks.

"Shut up, Sam." Tenne and Dean respond in unison.

Sam laughs. "Looks like you could use a new layer of gauze." He says, indicating towards the blood-soaked patch on Dean's shirt.

Dean turns to meet Tenne's gaze, intending to humour her, but she is no longer sitting beside him. He briefly catches a glimpse of her blonde her disappearing through the front door and frowns.

_Or not._

Dean glances at Sam and shrugs. "Guess I do." He murmurs.

* * *

Sam is in the kitchen re-dressing his brothers wound. In part, it's because he feels guilty for interrupting whatever the hell it was that he had interrupted between Tenne and Dean, but mainly it is because he needed something to do. It stilled his thoughts, and almost made him forget about the dull ache he felt deep in the pit of his stomach. Not that Dean, or Bobby, or even Tenne needed to know. Keeping busy is what kept him clean, at least, that was until it didn't.

Sam peels the last of the surgical tape from his fingers and places the used bandages in the trash. He considers discussing the next seal with Dean, but instead, he chooses to honour the conventions of younger brothers everywhere and address a topic that would disarm his older brother, rather than appease him.

"So, interesting moment back there?" Sam begins in a neutral tone.

Dean rolls his eyes and flicks his bloodied shirt at his younger brother. "Shove off, Sammy." She mumbles. His chest is bare and Sam can see the many scars that pepper Dean's body - see them, and recall each memory of how his brother had obtained them.

Sam's face is blank, although strained in an attempt to prevent him from smirking. "What? I didn't say anything."

"Then wipe that damn look off your face."

Sam grins. He can't help it, but he does. He recalls the way Tenne had retreated back to her room, red-faced and gnawing on her bottom lip and wonders how Dean could be so dismissive.

"She's pretty." He attempts once more.

"I said shove off." Dean repeats, and he reminds Sam of a cat, hissing and spitting as it retreats into a corner.

Sam smirks. He wasn't about to 'shove off'. No way.

"You like her?"

Sam can suddenly feel the tension, and he can see that Dean wants to strike him, but he doesn't care, he continues any way. "Don't you?"

"No!" Dean spits. "I mean, I like her sure, but I don't _like_ her."

"Why not?"

"_Sammy_." Dean breathes, his name like a warning on his brothers lips.

"What?" Sam challenges. "Just admit it."

Dean closes his eyes and turns his head the other way. "Look, you wouldn't understand."

"Actually, I think I'm the only one who understands." Sam responds.

"Sam, Tennessee is …"

"Into you?"

Dean offers Sam a hard look. "Young." He says.

"Young?" Sam repeats, unimpressed. "That's the best you've got?"

Dean runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "Sam, I … maybe tried to kiss her."

"I noticed."

"She looked like she wanted to puke!"

"That was only after she knew I was there."

"What?" Dean asks, meeting his brothers' gaze.

"What?" Sam parrots, producing a grin. It's cruel and _shit-eating_, and although he wants to, Dean can't generate a good enough reason not to hit his brother in the face.

Sam sighs. "Look dude, you've clearly got issues or whatever, we all do, but could you at least be honest with yourself about this one thing?" He implores.

Dean shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. She's our responsibility. That's all. And yes, she's _pretty_. I got lost in the moment. Hot babes have that effect on me. Won't happen again."

"And that's how you really feel?"

When Dean says "Yes." Sam can hear the implicit "No." Although, it's more like a "Hell no. Not even close." But he allows the subject to slide, if only for the moment. One way or another, something was going to happen. That much he could tell. Just by looking at them it was obvious. Whether it was in a day, or a month, _something_ would tilt the axis in their favour. He would wait.

_He_ would.

But the apocalypse wouldn't.

* * *

So, a penny for your thoughts? ;)


End file.
